Lucky number seven

My coffee press broke.

My boobs are leaking.

And my baby is dead.

For sixteen weeks I grew life inside this womb, only to birth death.

Seven times my hormones have been thrown into disarray. Seven times I've seen that little plus sign. Seven times my body has prepared to birth life.

I really thought number seven was going to be the lucky one. The one that finally birthed our last living child.

Pregnancy number seven. It has to be a sign, doesn't it?

I slowly began my last newborn collection.

Fingers crossed this was the last time my waist line would expand beyond comprehension.

But my coffee press broke.

My boobs have begun to leak.

And I'm left with an empty womb once again.

I guess seven isn't a lucky number after all.

*my coffee press has since been replaced by my super awesome generous village

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